


a grip so tight I couldn't tear it apart

by janie_tangerine



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Bruises, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Idiots in Love, Marking, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Canon, Roughness, Switching, Woman on Top, past jaime/cersei but not overtly much
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-12 02:13:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29377617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janie_tangerine/pseuds/janie_tangerine
Summary: in which Jaime finds out that he really does have a thing for leaving bruises on Brienne... until he finds out he likes whenshedoes the same to him, too.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 28
Kudos: 180
Collections: The Exchange that was Promised: Jaime x Brienne Smut Swap 2021





	a grip so tight I couldn't tear it apart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kirazi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kirazi/gifts).



> Written for the prompt _ex bruises! Brienne's pale skin marks easily, or Jaime ends up with fingerprints after she holds him down and savors the memories: basically, some scenario in which one or both of them ends up leaving some (consensual, or accidental but subsequently enjoyed) bruises on the other and it's a turn-on_ , with a dash of the post-battle sex from prompt two though the focus was the former - I really hope you like it, my dear giftee!

He doesn’t _mean_ to, the first time it happens.

Incidentally, it’s also the second time they fuck, and it could be entirely _better_ circumstances because _against a wall in Winterfell just after having killed he can’t even remember how fucking many wights_ was absolutely not how he had pictured sex with Brienne at any point in his life, not that he hadn’t thought the _first_ time would be on the cold ground with a threadbare blanket on the eve of the battle in question after Brienne told him that now that she knew they wanted each other she was _not_ going to go to her death without — _without_ , and so they did, and —

Anyway.

The first time — it had been nothing like what he had known until then. They had both been trembling as they helped each other out of their breeches and crawled under another threadbare blanket that barely hid them from the corner of the main hall they were huddled against because it was decided it was a better plan for everyone to be in the same place when the dead came, and Brienne had muffled her moans against his shoulders as he fucked into her shallowly at first and then harder and harder later and she had called his name all along and it had sounded like the finest song he ever heard in his entire life and he had whispered hers and dropped kisses along her freckled collarbone as he came and came and _came_ inside her, and then he had thought that if he _really_ died tomorrow then he’d have died happy, and he _didn’t_ , but this time —

This time —

This time he was just so fucking _relieved_ they made it, he couldn’t fucking believe it for a second, and he had felt adrenaline pump in his veins from the second they locked eyes and maybe he had _known_ Brienne felt the same the moment they locked eyes and they had run to the first empty room they could find not that he hadn’t noticed others doing _exactly the same thing_ , and they had managed to get rid of the armor just barely before being all over each other and Brienne had moaned the moment he pushed her against the wall and moved his hand down in between her legs, finding her cunt under her smallclothes and wishing he could tear those trousers away except he only had one hand to do it with but he couldn’t give a fuck at the moment, not when she was moaning and pulling him close and throwing her head back and so maybe he had moved his hand under her shirt and _grasped_ , hard, while his mouth found her neck and sucked right there at the base of it, and she had gone still for a second but then moaned _harder_ and —

And then he’s moving back, grabbing her hips with the one hand he has and dragging her over to the bed, he doesn’t even know whose fucking bed it is but he can’t care less right now, and it creaks under their weight as he bodily pushes her over it and follows kneeling on top of her, and her shirt rolls upwards and he has a good look at her neck in the candlelight and —

And there are reddening bruises blooming on her pale skin, right where he gripped, where his fingertips were grabbing, and there’s the one on her neck where he bit before, darkening and darkening at once as she throws her head back and —

He should probably apologize, he didn’t mean it, he doesn’t even know if they _hurt_ , but then his hand grabs her hip again and she moans and she’s asking him if he’s going to fall asleep on her or _what_ , and —

And he can’t even _think_ — he manages to pull his breeches down enough to get his cock out and fuck he hadn’t realized he was _so_ hard but now he’s feeling that to the marrow of his bones and he can’t even _think_ about anything that’s not sliding inside her and wrapping his lips around each of her nipples and suck at them as they perk and perk and perk under his tongue, small as they are, and trying to not crash down on her because of the fucking right hand he doesn’t have and then she has her legs around his back and pushing him towards her and he’s thrusting and thrusting and _thrusting_ and she’s screaming his name

( _jaimejaimejaimejaime_ _the way he always hoped she’d say it no ser no kingslayer just jaime_ )

and he’s coming inside her in a rush and he doesn’t know if he’s ever came this hard in his life _ever_ and —

And she doesn’t let him go and she pulls him in and she doesn’t let him slide out even after he’s spent and he’s fallen on top of her and he can’t hold himself up anymore, and he’s breathing all over her neck and then he's licking that bruise without even thinking about it and she’s gasping into the touch and he immediately moves back.

“Fuck,” he says, “sorry, I —”

“Didn’t say you had to move,” she whispers, sounding completely out of breath as she drags him closer, and oh, _what_ , did she —

“Didn’t — didn’t it hurt?”

She pulls back a moment, looking at him as if he’s just turned into a wight himself — Seven Hells he hopes _not_ — and shakes her head.

“Jaime. We just fought an army of dead people and you think _that_ … hurt?” She glances down at it, and then down at her breasts, and oh, _wait_ , fuck, he hadn’t realized he had sucked so hard on them he actually left bruises there too, blooming on her pale skin, a dark shade of red on their soft perky pale freckled flesh.

“I —”

“That didn’t hurt at all,” she shakes her head, and now she’s flushing, wait _is she_ , maybe the light is tricking him but _no_ , no it isn’t, “actually — actually maybe I — I think I liked it,” she says, almost shyly, not quite looking at him, and _wait_ —

“You — you _did_?”

It’s not like — he always took care to not leave any on Cersei _at all_ because either people could see them or _Robert_ could and it would hardly be easy to find a way to justify them, so — so it never really happened, though the contrary had, more often than not, and he hadn’t minded but he also hadn’t _cared_ , and now —

She nods. “It — it shows this really happened, doesn’t it?” She asks, her voice still barely audible as they try to fit into the narrow hard bed, and oh.

_Oh_.

Of course —

Of course she’d think that, and he kind of wants to tell her that it’s a damn shame that she would because of course it was real and of course he wanted it and of course he doesn’t regret it, but —

But she never was much for words, was she.

She was more for _facts_ , wasn’t she.

He takes a better look at her neck. She usually wears shirts that do cover the piece of skin where he bit before, but maybe —

“Then,” he grins, “how about I give you a couple where _everyone_ will see them?”

She turns towards him, her lips curling up in a smile that’s so fucking _pretty_ he doesn’t know how people could ever think it was anything but, and then she sits up, nodding —

“Please,” she whispers, and how can he _not_ lean down immediately, just where neck meets shoulder, and bite down soft but firm and _suck_ at that pretty pretty soft pale freckled skin long and _hard_ so that when he moves away he’s left a bruise that will _definitely_ turn purple in a short time?

“Oh,” she says, sounding like she _liked_ it, “maybe you should — do it on the other side, too?”

“How could I refuse a lady asking so nicely?” He grins, and then leans down and _does_ and when the next morning everyone is staring at the dark bruises popping out of Brienne’s white shirt and he grins back _widely_ at anyone who immediately looks at _him_ after, well.

The fact that _they know it was him_ and that no one has done anything except staring and that they actually _can_ do this and get away with it and actually flaunter it —

It makes him feel warm.

So very, very, very warm.

He reaches with his left hand under the table as they break their fast, takes her hand and thinks, _maybe next time I’ll do it again_.

— —

Oh, he _does_ it again.

He _does_ , leaving dark bruises all over her neck and hips and feeling blood rush through his veins hot and burning and scalding every time he does and every time she grins up at him, and maybe it goes straight to his cock when the next morning people look at her neck and she _grins_ at them and everyone knows it was _him_ leaving them there because they’re sharing a room permanently and they aren’t hiding it and _god_ doesn’t it make him feel so _light_ , that he doesn’t have to lie about it?

He _doesn’t_.

He doesn’t and they can fuck freely and he can leave marks on her and she’ll touch them when he can see it and his legs will fucking tremble every single time she does and the one time some northern lord tries to raise eyebrows at them Brienne asks him if he really thinks she couldn’t kick off her any man who’d try to do something to her that she didn’t want, and he had left her _more_ hickeys after, and she had moaned and moaned and _moaned_ as she did, and —

He’s fucking over in his head.

He’s _so_ over in his head, he’s not even thinking about what happens after someone points out that they can’t stay in Winterfell forever, but he just can’t bring himself to _care_ , not when he can afford to not care about anything that’s not the fact that he’s _happy_ for the first time he doesn’t know how long, and so he doesn’t and he keeps on sucking hickeys and bruises into her hips and her legs and her neck with good peace of anyone who keeps on side-eyeing them and all the whispers of _but what will her lord father say_ , which are certainly _not_ being murmured where Brienne could even catch a whiff of them, and Jaime honestly would like to know how _that_ is something people give a fuck about when they’re all still trying to regroup and counting the losses and getting adjusted to not live in constant darkness.

_Then_ , it happens that she _does_ hear some of that talking.

Jaime is _not_ going to envy the guy who said it, nor the maester who’ll have to fix his teeth considering how hard she punched him in the face the moment she heard that most likely she had fallen in bed with him without realizing he was going to show his true colors and go back to Casterly Rock to marry some prettier lady.

He really is _not_.

Still, that evening, he can see that she’s tense, and he figures it wouldn’t help anyone to… not address the damned problem.

“You know,” he tells her, “I don’t even _want_ Casterly, for what it’s worth.”

“But it’s yours,” she replies quietly, her tone carefully neutral.

He shrugs. “I haven’t thought about it in those terms for years and honestly, my brother having it is what would piss off my father and my sister, wherever in the Seven Hells they are, and I don’t — I don’t think I’d be happy there, anyway.”

“You _wouldn’t_?”

“Why would I? I have barely any good memories tied to that place now.” _Now that all the ones with Cersei are tainted in retrospective_ , he doesn’t say, but he thinks he doesn’t need to. He did tell her. She knows.

“So — so what were your plans?” She asks, and now she sounds vaguely hopeful, and wait, did she think —

Well, could she _know_ any different?

Of course she couldn’t. They didn’t exactly _talk_ about this, did they?

Then again, he hasn’t exactly _made_ plans either. Honestly, he didn’t put much hope in either of them surviving the Long Night, except they _did_ , and maybe now he should actually think about it for real, but — does he even _need_ to? He thinks he knows already.

He thinks he’s known since he learned she was about to get hanged for him, really.

“What are _yours_?” He shrugs. He might as well hear them, even if he doesn’t think it’ll change his mind.

“I — I thought maybe I could go back to Tarth for a while,” she says tentatively. “I haven’t been back in years. My father just sent a raven saying he would like to see me again now… now that I’m a knight, too.”

She smiles at that, and Jaime thinks of when he _did_ knight her just after they found Sansa Stark, and she had knelt on the cold hard ground with the cold sun making her pale hair look like spun white gold and swore to each of those vows while he placed Oathkeeper on her shoulders, and was smiling so prettily, _so prettily_ , when she stood up a ser, and he smiles too, unable to stop it —

“Maybe I could help people out along the way. And when I’m there, I don’t know, rest for a bit and then think about what to do next. It’s hardly much of a plan, but —”

“I could come with you,” he interrupts her, not needing to hear more. He already knew he wanted to go with her wherever she wanted, but now that he’s heard it, he thinks he would like to see Tarth, and to see it _with her_ , and so what if it’s not much of a plan? He’s had other people planning his life since he was born, maybe now he’s all right with the barest hint of one. And going with Brienne to Tarth sounds… exactly like what he _needs_ right now.

“You — you would?” She asks, sounding like she had been hoping for it.

“I would,” he says. “I’ve known since I came with you in Bitterbridge, I think.”

It should have been harder to say it, but it’s not, and he groans into her mouth when she stands up, moves to where he’s standing and kisses him _hard_ and pushes him against the wall and _oh oh fuck fuck fuck_ his cock is stirring and his blood is boiling and the moment she grabs his wrists and slams them agains the cold Winterfell stone he jerks helplessly against her, and then she moves a hand behind his back and presses him closer and Seven Hells if he thinks about Brienne actually holding him up —

He throws a leg around her back and she _does_ , grabbing him by the legs and pulling him up and against her and _oh fuck_ he can’t help thrusting up against her and when she moves and slams him down on the bed he’s so hard he thinks he’ll come the moment she gets his cock free and touches it, except that she _doesn’t_ at once, except that she moves over him and grabs at his wrists, _hard_ , as if she doesn’t want to let him go, and oh _fuck_ it might be a bit painful but considering how turned on he is he barely even notices and then she immediately moves back, _wait, what, why_ —

“I’m sorry,” she says, and —

“For _what_? I was quite enjoying myself, for —”

She nods towards his wrists.

Oh.

She grabbed him so hard, his skin is streaked in the red shapes of her fingers, and all right, fair, it _did_ hurt a bit, but —

But he stares down at them and thinks that maybe he gets why _she_ wanted his on her neck.

It’s just — he hadn’t _known_ , and it wasn’t — it wasn’t the same when Cersei left nail scratches on his back and his hips, no, it’s not because now just _looking_ at them makes his cock fucking twitch, and then he thinks, _what if she held me down more, what if she marked me all over, what if I could see her on me like this all the time, what if everyone saw it —_

Suddenly, his breeches feel so constraining he would have ripped them off already, if only he had two hands.

“Brienne,” he says, “I think you should get back here and do exactly what you were about to.”

“Are — are you sure,” she blurts, kneeling on the bed, her shirt half-open, the bare top of her breast peeking from the opened laces, all that freckled skin underneath, “because — I didn’t hurt you, did —”

“You did _everything but_ ,” he says, “and as you can see I’m kind of _really_ bothered here, so if you wouldn’t mind —”

He never finishes that sentence.

She’s all over him a moment later, pulling down his breeches at once and holding him down to the bed grasping at his arms _tight_ , and oh gods but he can _barely_ feel the hurt as her crotch rubs over his dick and he jerks up desperately against her, and then she tells him to _not move_ and he lets his arms lie on the pillow and doesn’t while she moves her hands to his hips and grasps there hard, too, and then she reaches down and gives his cock a jerk or two and he feels like he _will_ fucking come like that in two seconds but instead he just leaks and leaks over her hand, and she strokes him and strokes him and _strokes_ him just enough to give him a bit of release but not to make him come, and oh gods does she know his body so well already, he thinks fleetingly, _of course she does, they fucked more since they started than he and Cersei managed since she married Robert, haven’t they_ , and then he doesn’t think anymore because she’s just sunk on his cock _slowly_ , and her cunt is taking him in deeper and deeper and _deeper_ and —

And oh _fuck_ she’s as warm and wet and welcoming as she is when he fucks into her, but like this — like this he’s thrusting up into her cunt at _her_ pace while her hands hold him still and grab him and pull him up and then push him down and pull him up again and slam him against the mattress and they’re holding him so tight he couldn’t get away if he tried and good fucking gods he doesn’t want to get away oh no he _doesn’t_ he wants her to never loosen that grip, he wants her to _keep him right there_ —

“Do you?” She asks, and he suddenly snaps back of it, wait, did he _speak_ — “ _Do you_ , I asked a question, Jaime,” she says, louder, maybe sounding a touch like she’s going to snap if he doesn’t answer soon, and why is that going to his cock _all over again_ , fuck fuck fuck he had no idea he would like _this_ except he is, except he _is_ —

“Yes,” he says, “yes yes _yes_ I do _please_ I do —” He blurts, and then she _smiles_ , bolder and blunter than she ever has before and he thinks he wants to see it _again_ —

“Good,” she says, “because I’m _not_ ,” and then she’s riding him faster and faster and _faster_ all over again and he’s rolling his eyes back and her grip on his wrists is so strong he thinks he couldn’t move them an inch if he tried except he _won’t_ try because he doesn’t _want to not at all not ever_ , and then she pulls him up and leans down and bites down on his neck the moment she thrust back and then forward and he can’t hold it back anymore — he can feel her shaking and coming around his dick and he can’t — he comes inside her, so fucking hard his entire body starts shaking and shaking and he feels like he’s coming apart at the seams except that she’s holding him so tight he could _never_ as long as she’s there, and —

And she’s still clamping down on him and he can feel her teeth on his skin and he throws his head back giving her better access, he doesn’t _care_ he wants everyone to see it, he wants _everyone_ to —

A bolt of pleasure so hard it makes him scream takes hold of him and he doesn’t think it’s ever been this _good_ and he hopes that it was as good for her too and then her mouth is on his and —

He opens his eyes lying down on the bed, with Brienne’s arm wrapped around his waist — she’s leaning on her elbow, looking down at him with those pretty, large blue eyes that look wet right now, and wait, she’s also smiling, what —

“You passed out,” she says, sounding a lot shier that she had been before, and he has to blink a moment.

Fuck.

Fuck, _did he_ , except —

He blinks again, sits up. He feels _good_ , and completely spent, and like he could sleep for a week, but also _sated_ , and he looks down at his wrists and _yes_ , the skin is all dark red, and there are purple marks on his hips where she grabbed him before, and then he turns and looks at the mirror on his side of the bed, and —

Well, _fuck_.

The entire left side of his neck is _dark_ red, and if he knows how bruises work — and he _does_ , he’s had enough of them in his life — it’ll be purple tomorrow, and it would show from _all_ of his shirts, and when he presses down on it he feels a dull pain that turns into something _better_ the moment he thinks _she_ left it there, and —

“I, uh,” she blurts, “I think I got carried away. I’m sorry, I —”

“I have a better idea,” he grins. “Instead of apologizing, you should wait until I’m not completely fucking exhausted and give me a matching one, because now it would be a damned tragedy if I just had _this_ to show and not anything on the right side?”

Her eyes go wide.

“You — you _want_ —”

“If you liked that,” he smiles wider, “so can I.”

“Oh, if _that_ ’s how you put it,” she says, and then she’s kissing him again and pressing gently on it too, moving his hand away — his fingers fall down and wrap around her waist, and he kisses her back and decides that he can’t fucking _wait_ for the moment they go downstairs and everyone sees the state of _his_ neck.

Now he gets it.

Oh, now he _gets it_ , and now that he knows how much he likes it if she takes control, he can’t wait to do that _again_ , too, but then again if he goes to Tarth with her, then they’ll have all the time in the world, won't they?

He likes the sound of that.

He likes it a _lot_.

End.


End file.
